Page 29 of Something Borrowed

It’s just a heck of a lot of profit per piece.

Vic rubbed the cool, sleek surface of the sparrow’s belly. Her pulse quickened, and giddy excitement bubbled through her. He really was adorable. It was the sort of slightly kitschy, ironic item a kind of punk midlife woman might have, someone totally comfortable in her own skin, someone who knew what she liked and liked what she was, no apologies . . .

Sure, she’d promised herself she wouldn’t take anything without paying for it ever again. But she’d never been good at keeping her word to herself, so why start now? Ha ha. Besides, it was just a little trinket. And an exorbitantly overpriced trinket at that. And the shop’s manager, or owner, or whatever, was so cheap that he didn’t even staff his store adequately. Night shift, and the kid working the till, dealing with an endless stream of munchie buyers, was on all by himself.

And sure, she’d promised Madeline too—but that only applied to the Second Chance Shop, right? She was honoring her word there, and she’d continue to. For sure.

There were two people ahead of her in line when she went to pay, an older woman—who, come to think of it, Vic realized with a bit of a shock, probably wasn’t much older than she was—and a teenager with a shag of black hair and unfortunate, painful-looking acne.

She studied the magazines facing out from the lower display beneath the counter, waiting her turn. The kid at the till knew the kid with black hair and they chatted a bit too long, but that was okay.

“Is this everything for you?” the kid asked without looking up, scanning her chips, sandwich, and candy bar.

“Um, yes, I think so, thanks.” Vic bit her lip. “No, actually, wait—I want wine gums too.”

That did get the kid’s attention. He glanced at her, grinning as she retrieved the bag and put it with the rest of her loot. “Someone’s got a sweet tooth.”

“You’re onto me,” Vic said, smiling back.

The air outside the convenience store kissed Vic’s flushed cheeks like a blessing. The temperature had dropped significantly while she’d been shopping, or, more likely, her own body temperature had spiked. Either way, the cold air felt good. She strode along the sidewalk toward home, feeling a strange—though, for once, not entirely unwelcome—sense of déjà vu. How many times had she walked this exact stretch of sidewalk, around this same time of night? Not all her memories of Greenridge were bad. Some of them were fun. She’d been fourteen when the 7-11 was built, actually. It made her laugh to think of it, but at the time, it had been a big deal for the whole town: one of the first franchised chain stores to come to Greenridge. Of course, now, like every other town in North America, it seemed, Greenridge had all the franchised fast-food joints, the mall was full of chains too, and it had more than its share of big box stores on the outskirts.

The air was fresh and her trip down memory lane was cheerful, not despair inducing. She rode the wave of good feelings all the way home.

And then it ended abruptly.

Standing in her bedroom, junk food that she probably wouldn’t bother eating laid out on her bed, sub sandwich in the fridge downstairs, Vic stared down at the stupid bird keychain.

Familiar, nauseating self-hatred welled up from deep inside, and salty regret burned in her sinuses. What a piece of utterly cheap junk. The bird’s eye was wonky, and there was nothing artful in the paint job. But it wouldn’t matter if it was Prada or Dior. That wasn’t the point. She’d said she wasn’t going to—

Steal. The word you’re looking for is steal. Call it what it is, at least.

Vic’s mouth was sweating and her stomach roiled hotly. She really might throw up. She had promised herself yet again and yet again, she . . . what? Couldn’t resist a piece of tacky crap? Was she certifiably crazy? Any regret she had about warning Cal off disappeared. Who cared if he thought she was a weirdo for the way she’d acted tonight. He should stay clear. She’d done him a favor.

She didn’t put the keychain in the box with her other . . . items. Instead, she pinned it to her bedroom wall by the door. To remind her. To shame her. What kind of a 53-year-old woman shoplifted?

The week didn’t get better from there.

Chapter 16

Vic had thought the bouts of heavy rain with only one mere day of spotty sunshine the previous week had been bad. Now, she took it back. The water streaming from the leaden clouds was more like rivers than drops. Stepping out from her porch on Wednesday was like walking into a wall of water. She had an umbrella, but within about three minutes, the vicious wind had turned it inside out. By the time she got to The Second Chance Shop, she was soaked to her skin. So much for her expensive “water resistant” coat. What a crock.

Madeline was at the payment counter, reading glasses on, brow furrowed, studying some kind of papers. She nodded a distracted hello, about to put her full concentration back on the papers—then she must’ve registered Vic’s state because she pulled her readers off and did a double take.

“Omigoodness! Look at you. You’re like a poor drowned rat!”

Only Madeline could make an expression like that sound like an endearment. But suddenly her “boss” and this place, this beautiful, good-smelling, interesting place—that wasn’t really for Vic, not in any real way—just made her feel angry. Fury, humiliation, and futility tornado’d through her in a storm equal to the one raging outside.

“Don’t be nice to me!” Vic screamed. “Just fucking don’t.”

Madeline’s eyebrows shot toward her hairline and her jaw tightened—or Vic thought it did. A young woman with stunning white-blonde hair strode out from somewhere in the back of the store, a little girl with corkscrew curls and an indignant scowl marching behind her.

“Everything okay here?” the blonde asked.

“We do not yell meanly,” the child said, giving Vic a look that made her want to go hide. “Only with joy.”

Vic shook her head. Of all the weird, self-helpy, hippy things for a pre-schooler to come up with, and yet—

Vic’s insane, out-of-control, nonsensical anger skulked away under the concerned gazes of the witnesses. Only horrible shame, warring with anxiety, remained in an oily gut-churning mass.